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  This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Selena Kitt

  Porn Again Christian © November 2009 Kris Klein

  eXcessica publishing

  All rights reserved

  Porn Again Christian

  By Kris Klein

  “You are shitting me,” I said to Ravi, as we sat in the stands on one of the hottest days of the year so far.

  Ravi shook his head. “Uh-uh. It’s him. Do you believe this shit?”

  I sighed. “Ravi, you have dick on the brain more than any guy I’ve ever known; you’ve been that way since we were in middle school. You sure you aren’t imagining things?”

  “No way, Josh,” he whispered back, keeping his voice low in the crowd of people. “Take a good look; it’s him!”

  I tried to see, but the sun was too bright. It was only mid-April, but the summer in Phoenix was already turning brutal. Sitting there on the stands, in a crowd of parents and aunts and grandmas and kids, I wish I’d never agreed to take my sister to her softball game. Damn my mother’s boss for calling her into the office on a Saturday—but God Bless Ravi for coming along to keep me company.

  The temperature was over a hundred, the sun merciless as it glared off the red and white uniforms of the girls on my sister’s team. They were losing—as they usually did—to another team from Tempe, but my sister Callie loved the sport, and I was glad she had finally taken an interest in something. At fifteen, there were days when you couldn’t pry her off MySpace, or away from the creepy goth chick she hung out with from the neighborhood. I was happy to see her take an interest in something healthy for a change.

  But none of that mattered right now, as I stared across the dusty field to her team’s dugout … where, standing outside it, a really good-looking and muscular Latino in his late twenties—built like Mario Lopez and with equally sexy dimples—stood yelling at the girl at bat to run faster (or something similar; he was so hot, I wasn’t really paying attention). The guy wore tight black jeans, a white ball shirt with red piping that matched the girls’ shirts on his team (though his was a lot more snug, showing off one hell of a physique), and a black Diamondbacks cap—and was my sister’s team coach, Mr. Garcia. He was also a seventh grade teacher at a middle school in Phoenix—very popular with his students, and even more so with his female colleagues.

  But most important—at least, according to my best friend Ravi—Coach Garcia was also a former porn star.

  * * * *

  I couldn’t wait to drop my sister off at the house, then head over to the apartment Ravi and I shared in south Scottsdale. We’d been best friends since grade school, Ravi and I, never more than friends and that was probably a good thing (we knew too many of each other’s secrets). He was Pakistani, about 6-foot tall, very cute (though kind of skinny), with big brown eyes, medium-brown skin, sexy full lips, and a dick close to ten inches long. I paled by comparison—literally—being a white guy with Casper-like skin, thick reddish-blonde hair, and a zillion freckles on my face and shoulders. I was an ex-high school wrestler and track star…so was athletic and smooth, about five-ten and well built—with an eight-inch pecker, when hard—and in many ways was the yin to Ravi’s yang. We could have made a hot couple—but were only nineteen years old each, both in our junior year at ASU, and way too horny and sexually-driven to be in any relationship…much less one with each other.

  I went to get a bottle of water out of the refrigerator soon as we were in the door of our messy two-bedroom apartment—Ravi heading right to the computer like it was gonna save his life. Within minutes, as I came back into the cluttered living room from the kitchen, Ravi was already waving me over—his eyes as big as headlights.

  “I found him, Josh!” he yelled, his scrawny ass almost bouncing out of the folding chair. “And holy-fucking-shit, I was right; it’s him!”

  I took a swig of water, sure Ravi was losing his pornographic mind, and came around the computer to stand behind him—leaning over his shoulder to stare at the screen.

  Ravi had the straight adult section of TLA Video’s website up on the screen. He’d evidently typed in the model name “CHRISTIAN GOMEZ” into the search engine—and a total of eight results were found. Titles like Stroking the Cat and Lactating Nymphos were among the DVD box covers shown…but Ravi had moved the computer’s mouse so the cursor lay over a DVD with the dubious title Helen’s Melons.

  “Look!” Ravi insisted, his eyes on fire.

  I leaned over, peering at the screen. Man, was it dusty; Ravi was lax on his household chores this week. “There are three guys on that box cover,” I told him. “If you mean the dark-haired dude in the center—shit man, that could be anyone.”

  “Oh, open your eyes, Josh!” he clicked on the box cover, bringing up the individual film’s listing—then clicked again to enlarge the box cover image…and the Helen’s Melons DVD suddenly sprang up in a large, unobstructed view on a separate screen.

  I gasped. “Holy fuck,” I whispered, my hand going to my mouth without my realizing it.

  “I told you!” Ravi hooted, looking back over his shoulder at me and grinning. “It’s him!”

  Indeed, it was. Three men stood around some big-breasted, overly made-up chick on the box cover of the DVD—all of them surrounded by fire like this movie was gonna be smoking hot. And right there—smack dab in the middle—his body as smooth and brown and ripped as I’d spent the afternoon fantasizing it to be, was Mr. Armando Garcia, aka “Christian Gomez”…complete with one golden-brown, uncut nine-inch cock standing straight out from his thick bush of black pubic hair. He was younger in the photo—twenty-two, maybe twenty-three—but most definitely, most fucking definitely, was it my sister’s softball coach…and maybe the most popular middle school teacher in the valley.

  “It looks like he did only eight films,” Ravi was saying, his dark eyes lit up as he clicked on screen after screen. “The last one about five years ago. But shit—they’re all straight. Not even a bi one, damnit—and forget any gay shit,” Ravi added, disappointed. “Looks like he never dabbled in gay porn.”

  “Yet,” I told Ravi, mind wandering. An evil, wicked, and very horny idea was blossoming in my mind like a weed. Ravi looked back at me, eyes questioning.

  “Yet,” I said again, mind racing with how to pull it off.

  * * * *

  I got Mr. Garcia’s cell number off my mom’s “emergency list” on the corkboard, and on Sunday Ravi and I took turns calling it. We dialed five times throughout the day, asking “Is Christian there?” the first few times…and, with the last two, changing it to “May I speak to Christian Gomez, please?” By the fifth call, around six that evening, Mr. Garcia got the hint—and instead of saying “Sorry, wrong number,” he was now replying with, “Okay, what do you guys want?”

  I made the last call—and told him his presence was requested immediately. He took down the address and showed up at our apartment around seven tha
t night—by which time Ravi and I had the place cleaned up and everything ready…down to the borrowed video cameras stationed at strategic places around my bedroom, which we didn’t even bother to try and hide.

  He showed up at our door in a starched white button-down shirt that hugged his A-shaped frame and looked immaculate against his golden-brown skin. His dark blue jeans clung to muscular legs, thighs thick and strong enough to choke a bear, and his black boots were pure cholo. His thick black hair was well-styled, face clean-shaven, and the only thing I was sorry not to see were his dimples. I expected that; God knows, he wasn’t smiling. I was glad when he didn’t seem to recognize me from the ballgame the day before.

  He denied everything at first, until Ravi and I produced printouts of blown-up box cover images from TLA, as well as a few printed out photos—nudes—of him we found, after a lengthy online search. When one of the printouts depicted Mr. Garcia lapping on some cute young brunette’s twat, the teacher’s shoulders finally sank—his body going limp on our white living room sofa.

  “Okay,” he said, voice tired. “I get it—you know. Fine. So what now—you destroy a long-term career I’ve taken half a decade to build…over a short-term career I was stupid enough to do when I was young—one I gave up a long time ago?”

  “We don’t want to tell anyone,” I told Mr. Garcia, sitting on the other end of the sofa. Ravi, in a tattered brown Barcolounger nearby, nodded agreement.

  Mr. Garcia laid the sheaf of papers we’d given him on the couch between us, looking up at me. His thick, black brows were furrowed together under those dark, expressive and beautiful eyes of his. “Well, if you want money,” he said, “boy, are you guys barking up the wrong tree.” He shuffled on the couch to better face me. “Do you guys have any idea how little teachers are paid?”

  “We don’t want money,” I told him.

  His lips went thin with anger. “I’m a good teacher,” he said.

  “We know,” I replied.

  “I would never do anything to hurt or endanger any of my students, female or male,” he added.

  “We know that, too,” Ravi answered, from his chair. Mr. Garcia’s head snapped around to glare at him…before turning back to me.

  “Well…” he asked, angry now, his thick brown hands wringing together in his lap. “Well—what the fuck do you want, then?” he asked, almost yelling.

  I took a deep breath, praying he wouldn’t hit me. “You.”

  He didn’t get it at first; sat back with those brows knotted together, not comprehending. Then the worry lines in his forehead faded, and he turned from me, to Ravi, to me again. The dawn was breaking…and he didn’t like it.

  “I—I’m not gay,” he said, voice shaky.

  “We know,” I told him. “But we are, so that’s okay.”

  “We want a taste,” Ravi continued, “of what all those women, in all those films, had. We want Christian Gomez back.”

  Mr. Garcia turned to stare at Ravi, then back at me again, his mouth open in surprise.

  “Only for an hour or so,” I added.

  “That,” he whispered, “was a whole other lifetime ago.”

  I shrugged.

  “Not anymore.”

  * * * *

  In the end he agreed—what else could he do?—and followed our instructions to go upstairs to my bedroom and strip down to his underwear. He balked at seeing the video cameras there, until we pointed out it would hurt us, as much as him, if anyone but me and Ravi saw the footage—not to mention we could order his films at any time and use those to destroy his career, if we really wanted to, anyway.

  Ravi and I watched him strip, as Mr. Garcia first unzipped and removed his little black gaucho boots. I have a thing for feet, and got totally turned on that his were no bigger than a size ten. Next came the white socks. Then—after a baleful glance at Ravi and me—those tight, tight jeans…which, when off, revealed a big, round ass encased in white briefs I was dying to devour. Then, at last, the shirt—which Mr. Garcia unbuttoned slowly and removed. His body was as smooth and hard and defined—and flawless—as it had been back when he was doing porn. He was a tiny bit shorter than Ravi, so not quite six-foot tall. Perfect.

  “Now you said just oral, right?” he asked, as Ravi went around my master bedroom to make sure all the cameras were recording.

  “Get into bed,” I told him. “We’ll take care of everything.”

  “I doubt I’ll even get hard,” he warned. “Not with another guy sucking me.”

  “Well,” I replied, “let’s see what happens.”

  He crawled onto my huge, king-sized four-poster bed, lying in the center and flat on his back as instructed. Once there, his dark, beautiful, and ripped body lying on my navy blue bedspread and white pillows, I grabbed his white socks from the floor and began using one of them to tie his left wrist to one of the bed posts above his head—tossing Ravi the other sock to do the same with his right wrist.

  “Whoa, no fucking way!” Mr. Garcia yelled, pulling his arm away.

  “Yes fucking way,” I told him. “No one’s going to hurt you, and we’re not getting punched by you if you suddenly get violent.”

  I grabbed his wrist again—hard—and realized what strength he had in those well-muscled arms when he’d pulled away. I made my knot in his sock secure, instructing Ravi to do the same.

  Then, his wrists secured, Ravi and I stripped down to nothing and crawled into bed on either side of the hot, handsome Latino teacher…Ravi peeling back the guy’s briefs to reveal the infamous, brown uncut cock we’d both seen only on DVD boxes so far.

  “Be my guest,” Ravi said, grinning.

  I smiled back at him, then leaned over and inhaled Garcia’s flaccid, uncut cock into my mouth, sucking hard. As Ravi pulled the underwear off the teacher, making him now bronzed and beautiful and fully nude on my bed, I began to work his dick with everything I had…and sure enough, it began to spring to life in my mouth, growing hard. I turned around on the bed, to where I could glance up at Mr. Garcia, and saw his eyes were shut and he was chewing on his lower lip to keep from moaning, or showing any signs of pleasure. As Ravi bent his dark head to lap and suck at the teacher’s heavy, dark, fuzz-covered balls…I played with the foreskin on his prick, tenting it around my tongue as I tickled his cock head inside. Garcia couldn’t help it now, a moan escaping from his throat, and this made me work that much harder to please him, taking what was growing into over nine inches of dick all the way down my throat, my head colliding with Ravi’s as I sucked that hardening prick down to the pubic hair.

  “You gotta taste him,” I told Ravi, after coming up for air. “Fucking hot, man.”

  I held Garcia’s fat, long cock—which otherwise would have now been lying rock-hard up against his belly—straight up for Ravi to suck…and when Ravi’s thick, dark lips had wrapped around that huge Latin pole, sucking Garcia down to his straight nuts, which were already wet with Ravi’s spit, I hustled up to the top of my bed, hovering over Mr. Garcia’s face, and said, “Christ, you taste good.”

  He stared up at me, saying nothing, his eyes lit with an angry fire.

  “Let me show you,” I said, then bent my head to kiss him. My lips met tight, unwilling ones, and it was my turn to get pissed. “Don’t want to teach too badly, do you?” I asked, the total asshole now…and when I bent my head down again, Mr. Garcia’s lips parted and my tongue entered his mouth and he was kissing back.

  “Taste your cock,” I whispered into his mouth, sucking his tongue into mine. “Taste how great you taste.” And as Ravi worked his fat pole below, Mr. Garcia’s lips began to suck on mine and we were fully making out, my nineteen to his twenty-eight, me kissing a straight guy like we’d been lovers for years. I straddled his body, my own fat pink hard-on riding into his furry chest, and Jesus could this guy kiss; my balls were on fire, ready to almost come just from kissing and rubbing against him, and we must have made out for ten minutes or more—me unable to get enough of those sweet-tasting, sexy-as-h
ell lips full of as much passion as my own…or that sensual tongue that kept dancing with mine from my mouth into his—before I heard Mr. Garcia’s cock pop from Ravi’s mouth to slap against the Latino’s flat belly, and felt a few warm splatters of wetness hit my back and ass.

  “I gotta stop before the dude comes,” Ravi was saying, wiping his mouth as I turned to look back as him. “He’s oozing enough pre-cum, I’m afraid he’s gonna nut too fast.”

  “Shit no, we don’t want that,” I told him, climbing off the hottest teacher I’d ever known—maybe the hottest man I’d ever known. “Not yet.”

  Ravi and I climbed off the bed next, moving to the foot of it where we each grabbed one of Mr. Garcia’s feet in our hands, spreading his legs. Shit, even the guy’s feet were perfect—as golden-brown as the rest of him, smooth to the touch, with clean and clipped nails. As we spread his legs wide, Ravi and I took our already-hard cocks and smacked them against his feet, coating his size-tens in dapples of our pre-cum before bending over and sucking his toes into our mouths—Ravi licking and slurping and sucking on the sexy teacher’s right foot, while I ate my own pre-jizz from his left. We sucked on each individual toe, gently but firmly, and licked the soles of his feet with fat, pink tongues—until Garcia’s cock was pretty much dancing off his belly, bouncing up and down on its own. The foot worship was driving him nuts—he was now even pulling at the socks tied around each of his wrists—but we didn’t let up…again, not until we saw so much pre-cum flowing from his big brown cock, the pinkish-brown head sticking fully out of its foreskin now, we were afraid he’d nut before the fun really started.

  That’s when we stopped sucking, and I bent down to retrieve Ravi’s own white socks from the floor. Handing one to Ravi, before Mr. Garcia could stop us we were able to use them to tie the teacher’s ankles to the bottom posts of the bed—his arms and legs spread out now on my bed, unmovable. He was all ours.